


The Empty Space Between

by vampirebitch7



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Pre-Episode: s03e01 Anne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5825536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirebitch7/pseuds/vampirebitch7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Buffy are in LA trying to lick their wounds after having lost their respective loved ones. All they want to do is get lost and hide, but the world isn't done with them yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Though elements from the Season 3 episode "Anne" are used, this story diverges from canon after the Season 2 finale episode "Becoming (Part 2)".
> 
> Disclaimer: No material taken from Buffy the Vampire Slayer is my property. Writing this is just for fun.
> 
> I haven't found a beta reader yet, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a warm afternoon in the middle of August and Buffy Summers had been dead for almost four months. Spike could not remember why that was important, but it was.

He wanted to think about it, but in his current state, half-unconscious with a headache pounding against his skull, it was probably wise to save such thoughts for later. Later, for a time when his hand was not on fire.

Spike was suddenly very much awake, and, fully registering the pain in his blistering hand, yanked it out of the harsh sunshine with a curse. The motion sent a wave of burning agony down his side, a hurt so intense he was unable to breath, though that part of him was safe from the light pouring in through the window. Dizzy and disorientated, too tired to sit up properly from his position sprawled out on the floor, Spike reached his good hand across his body and felt for the wound in his stomach. Years and years of violence and inflicting such injuries on others told him that it was not good. It was then that he realized there was blood everywhere, which would be awesome, except that he was quite sure it was _his_.

It was not a fatal injury, not for a vampire anyway, but he was not going to be up tap-dancing anytime soon. Which might become a problem, because Spike was pretty sure the gits who did this to him were not done with him yet. Here, he was just waiting for a stake in the heart. He might as well already be dust.

" _Fuck_ ," Spike said aloud, because the empty silence of the room was getting to him.

Battered and bruised, barely able to move, he just laid there on the hard ground. He was tired and he was _hungry_ , he had no idea where he was, his head hurt and his side hurt and his fucking hand was still _sizzling_ and—mindful of the broken ribs, Spike took a deep breath and tamed the urge to do something dramatic like _throw himself out the window—_

Spike groaned, closed his eyes and wished he was far, far away on some exotic island with Drusilla under his arm and fresh blood in his veins. He wished his dark princess hadn't betrayed him with that disgusting Fungus demon, and he wished Dru had never sent him away once he found out. Spike wished that Angelus still had that soul shoved up his arse, that it hadn't been shagged right out of him by—the Slayer. It was all her fault, really.

Flashes of what happened the previous night—the gang of vampires, the fight, the interrogation, slowly came back to him. It _was_ all her fault. That girl was the reason those blokes had attacked him—the reason he was in such a miserable state, the reason for the bloody fucking _hole in his side_. For a moment, he hoped she really was dead, though there was this feeling in this stomach like those vampires the night before might have been right. Sure, she was gone, missing, had disappeared and bloody _vanished_ into thin air—but maybe that didn't mean anything. There was no body, no actual evidence except for her absence. There were rumors, of course, but it was certainly possible that that's all they were—rumors. Demons loved to gossip after all, and they were hardly reliable sources for such matters.

Besides, there was a part of him that felt like he would know if she was truly gone for good. She was supposed to be his biggest score, his ultimate challenge, the trinity notch on his belt, the trophy of his vampiric career. Buffy Summers was the best Slayer he would ever meet, he knew that, even as he hated her for everything she'd done to him. She was it. There was never going to be another better than her. If the Slayer was dead, if something else had killed her and taken his prize, he would know.

So then— _where the bloody hell was she_?

* * *

Several hours later but only a few miles away, through the shadows and the grime of Los Angeles, a small girl hurried through the streets as dark storm clouds gathered overhead. Her head was bowed down in an effort to escape the icy wind and brown hair fell out of her hood to obscure her face from those passing by. With a swift glance up at the sky, the girl tucked her arms against her chest and quickened her pace. She had almost reached her building when it began to rain.

Pulling open the door, Anne stepped inside, droplets of water falling from her clothes and splashing onto the already damp carpet. The lobby was empty except for her and an elderly man asleep and snoring away on one of the stained couches pushed up against the wall. The room smelt of dust and decay and rotting things, and the girl held her breath as she moved towards the stairs, over-sized coat twisting about her knees. Her sneakers squeaked against the slippery steps as she made her way up the dimly lit staircase, bag hugged against her side. Three more floors until Anne would reach her destination.

Her apartment was rather small and a bit dirty, with minimal furnishings that offered minimal comfort. There was mold growing on the ceiling, festering into fuzzy clumps of green and black in the corner above her sink. A single lamp sat on the floor next to her bed, offering a faint glow of artificial light. Two cabinets next to the sink served as a kitchen—there weren't any real appliances, merely an old microwave for soup and pasta for the days the diner didn't have leftovers. Although it was nothing to be excited about in normal circumstances, her apartment was the one place where she could rest. She could be alone, and no one would want anything from her.

After pulling her key from the lock, the dark-haired girl stumbled through the threshold of her apartment and kicked the door closed. Dropping her bag to the ground, she looked around the tiny room with a yawn. Though her apartment was in a tragic state of disrepair and located in a neighborhood that could be described as " _sketchy_ " on the best of days, it was the all she could find on her budget and with a fake ID. Buffy Summers never would have stepped inside, but it was a place to sleep, which was all Anne needed.

She ignored the image of a thin, pale girl with dark purple marks under her eyes in the mirror over the sink and looked down at her outfit. She was dressed in a trench coat to cover the ridiculous checkered uniform that was a mandatory element of her most recent waitressing gig. The coat was too big on her though, since she had picked it up for only a few dollars at Goodwill, and she looked like a child that had decided to play pretend and put on their parent's clothing. She kind of felt like that too.

Since buying an air-conditioner was outside of the budget, her window had been cracked open a few inches that morning to circulate the humid summer air, and now that it was raining, water cascaded down the glass pane and dampened the windowsill and floor beneath it. After she changed out of her uniform, Anne shut the window against the noise of the thundering storm and the screeching sound of police sirens that filled the air as cruisers raced through the wet streets.

Now, wearing a large white shirt and a pair of pajama shorts, she climbed into bed and settled back into the lumpy mattress. The nightmares came, as they always did, but that night they were _different_.

Usually, they were about Angel. She dreamt about him almost every night and it was almost always the same thing—the sea and the sand, hands tangled together as they stood on the shore. The beach would be completely empty except for them, and despite the waves crashing around their ankles, everything would be strangely quiet. Peaceful. Her dress would flutter around her legs in the wind, feet sinking into the wet sand as the sun set and the sky blazed with orange light.

Angel would hold her, and she would plead with him to stay.

He would always leave at the end, and it would take hours for her to stop shaking once she woke up. Despite the pain carving itself into her chest every night, she never took his ring off. It was on a chain around her neck, and every time she felt the little metal piece thump against her collarbone it was like pulling at the wound, tearing at it with her bare fingers until it bled and bled and _bled_ —but she still couldn't get herself to take it off. So she would just lie there after waking from another horrible dream, legs twisted among the blankets, gripping the ring and trying not to cry as dawn swept across the city and bathed the room in rosy light. It became a routine, as much a part of her morning as getting dressed and going to work.

But that night, when she went to sleep, she was not haunted by Angel and she did not wake up with tears in her eyes. She did experience a nightmare, but it was of a different kind—a Slayer dream. Her first since running away to LA. Buffy awoke with a jolt, heart racing, sweat on her brow, and this odd itch on the back of her neck that she hadn't felt in a long time. More of a tingle, really, a familiar one that meant—there was a _vampire_ nearby.


End file.
